The Saucy Lucy Murders

by Cindy Keen Reynders

  Crying out, Lexie scrambled toward the cabin again. Hiccoughs erupted in her diaphragm and racked her frame. Something primal and black rose within her. Her heart pounded until she thought it might burst from her chest. Finally she reached the cabin, slamming the door shut and locking it. The second it closed, another thwak sounded on the outside of the door and an arrow tip pierced the wood.

  Hiccough, hiccough …

  Lexie’s chest heaved with each frightened breath and she stared in horror at the door, expecting the killer to smash it down. She stuffed her fist in her mouth and bit back bitter sobs intermixed with hiccoughs.

  Disorientation and fear clouded her brain. She couldn’t focus her thoughts. Glancing at the small round disk in her hand, she noted the black lettering on it: Ice Queen Resort and Casino. A gambling chip. Had the killer dropped it?

  The killer.

  Lexie slid the chip inside her pocket. Heart hammering, she grabbed her purse and scrambled for her cell phone. Dialing 911 with shaking hands, she said to herself, please let it work up here, please, please, please …

  An operator immediately answered and Lexie blurted, “My friend’s, hiccough, been murdered. And now, hiccough, someone’s trying to kill me!”

  CHAPTER 14

  THE FRONT DOOR RATTLED LIKE IT HAD BEEN hit by a freight train. Someone was out there. Someone sinister — trying to get inside. Trying to get me.

  Blood hammered in Lexie’s temples and shot to her fingertips, making them tingle. The cell phone nearly fell out of her numb hand before she could slide it into her jeans pocket.

  Hiccoughs still shaking her frame, she pivoted, looking for a weapon. She spied the butcher block on the counter and grabbed the biggest knife. A door on the other side of the cabin beckoned her. Get out fast, she thought.

  Wait.

  She paused, hand trembling hand on the doorknob, as a horrid thought flashed in her mind. She could run, but what if the killer chased her? She was far from being the world’s fastest runner. Considering she wasn’t in the best shape and unfortunately carried around a few extra pounds of fluff, trying to make a run for it was probably a bad idea.

  Better hide.

  She locked the sturdy dead bolt on the door, and went around the room closing all the window shutters and locking them. More rattling at the front door, then pounding. Finally, it sounded as though someone was heaving himself or herself against the frame. Over and over. Lexie shook so badly she could barely stand and her knees literally knocked together.

  Hide. Fast.

  Her gaze moved to the closet under the stairs. Hiccoughing madly, she raced over and got inside, shutting the door. Coats hung from a rod, boots, and shoes were lined up on the floor, and sports gear hung from several hooks.

  She noticed what appeared to be a trap door in the wooden floor. Shoving aside a mop and a broom, she lifted it up and looked inside. It was dark and forbidding.

  When a splintering sound came from the pum-meled doorframe, Lexie grasped a flashlight sitting on a shelf. Flipping it on, she shed illumination into the musty darkness, sighting a wooden ladder and a small concrete cellar full of slatted crates. And lots of gooey spider webs. Chock full of arachnid vermin.

  Lexie abhorred spiders. Black, brown, white, green, or whatever color, they were squirmy, icky creatures. Small spaces gave her claustrophobia. A shiver of disgust ran up her spine.

  Bite the bullet.

  No time to worry about creepy crawlies. Or cramped spaces. Setting the flashlight aside, she yanked a long wool coat from the rod and spread it over the top of the trap door. Then she lifted the door and climbed down the ladder far enough to reach around the edge of the opening to make sure the coat covered it. She left the lid slightly ajar so she could see out, clutching the butcher knife tightly in her good hand. Just in case.

  From outside the closet, she could still hear unnerving racket of someone slamming against the door. The wood splintered one last time and a loud crash reverberated throughout the cabin, shaking the floor.

  They broke it down.

  Lexie swallowed hard, over and over, trying to rid herself of the hiccoughs. It didn’t work. The cold dampness of the cellar seeped into her bones. She shivered. Her muscles twinged. The old concrete walls seemed to close in on her.

  The floorboards squeaked with heavy footsteps. Dust drifted down in little puffs, tickling Lexie’s nose and throat. She alternately swallowed both hiccoughs and sneezes.

  The footsteps came closer and closer to the closet. The door creaked open. Lexie held her breath as the sound of ragged breathing came from the person standing above the trap door. Through the small slit she’d created between the floor and the wool coat, Lexie could see two dusty black boot tips. Could be army boots, Lexie thought. They were large, like a man’s.

  She swallowed again when her nose began to twitch wildly. She was going to sneeze. And hiccough. And get herself killed.

  No!

  Lexie took another deep breath and held it, praying she wouldn’t give into those natural urges. She thought about Eva, dear precious Eva who still needed her. She wanted to live to see her grandchildren. She thought about Lucy and patootie head Otis and Carl. Even batty old Aunt Gladys.

  God help her, she wanted to see them again, too.

  Eeeeeek! Eeek! Eeek A tiny mouse scurried from its hiding spot in the cellar and skittered past her feet. Lexie bit her lip and kept her gaze riveted on the black boots. They stayed where they were a while longer, then disappeared. The closet door banged shut.

  Thank heaven.

  Lexie closed her eyes and took a shaky breath of relief. Now she really, really had to sneeze and hiccough. Instead, she took a big gulp of air, held her breath, and prayed. Hard. The intruder stomped around Jack’s cabin for a bit, then the sounds stopped. Hopefully, the killer had left. Please God, help me. Help me be strong …

  Off and on, Lexie looked at her digital watch in the darkness, pressing the little button for light. About twenty minutes later, she heard someone else enter the cabin. She tensed until she heard the voice.

  “Westonville police,” a man called out. “Is anyone in here?”

  “I’m here,” she called out into the darkness. Dropping the butcher knife, she pushed open the trap door and shoved aside the coat. Climbing out of the cellar, she slowly opened the closet door and walked into a room full of police.

  Several burly uniforms stood near the gaping doorframe, guns drawn and pointed at the interior of the cabin. An ambulance with flashing lights was parked in front and squad cars sat haphazardly in the gravel drive.

  Gabe strode through the open door, his presence reassuring. “Put your guns away,” he told the officers, his detective’s star flashing on his belt. “Secure the area and start looking around.”

  As the officers re-holstered their weapons and went about their business, Gabe walked over to Lexie, face lined with concern. “You all right?”

  “Yes,” she answered, then immediately began to shiver, sneeze, and hiccough, all at the same time.

  “No, you’re not.” He took Lexie’s hand, pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around her palm. “You’re bleeding.”

  “It’s just a scratch.” She blinked back tears and hiccoughed, feeling like a quivering mass of jelly. The strain of what she’d just experienced was taking its emotional toll. “Jack Sturgeon, he’s out there by the tree—”

  “The paramedics are taking care of your friend,” Gabe told her.

  “Is he …?” Hiccough.

  A muscle twitched in Gabe’s cheek. “Yes, Lexie. He’s dead. I’m sorry.”

  She swallowed several times, letting the awful knowledge sink in. She’d known Jack was gone, but it was still shocking to hear. A wave of dizziness washed over her and she swayed.

  “Whoa there.” Gabe grasped her elbow to steady her and gently led her over to the leather sofa. Removing his jacket, he placed it over her trembling shoulders.

  “I know this isn’t the b
est time. But I need to ask some questions.” He took out a notepad and pencil. “OK?”

  Miserable, Lexie nodded, glad that at least her hiccoughs seemed to have stopped.

  “What happened?”

  Lexie told him everything that had gone on from the time she and Jack left the house until now.

  “Were you two dating?” he asked.

  Lexie blinked. “We’d been seeing each other. Just a couple of times, though.”

  He scratched on his pad. “Did Sturgeon have any enemies?”

  “No. As far as I could tell, he had a lot of friends and is … er, was well respected.” Her throat was suddenly dry and she swallowed convulsively.

  “We’ve talked before about your enemies,” Gabe said. “Whoever they are, they seem to be getting bolder. Like the grenade incident.”

  “People hate me. I have no business left to speak of, I’ve been getting odd calls and that black car’s been hanging around.”

  Stevenson scribbled in his notebook. “Did you tell Otis?”

  She nodded. “I’ve never been able to see the car close enough to get a license plate number or a make and a model. There’s not much he can do.” She paused as a thought occurred to her. “Do you think whoever killed Jack is the same person who killed Whitehead and Glenwood? And hurt Elton?”

  “Don’t know. But I’m going to find out.” Gabe wrote some more in his notebook, then flipped it shut. “You drive up here?”

  “Jack …” Lexie’s voice broke and she cleared her throat. “Jack did. It’s his truck outside.”

  “Give me a few minutes to talk with my boys. Then I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Later, as Gabe drove Lexie back to town, she closed her eyes and leaned against the head rest. She didn’t feel like talking. All she wanted to do was go home, wrap up in one of her mother’s quilts and sleep. Maybe the pain that squeezed through her heart when she thought about Jack would eventually go away. Maybe not. She felt as though she’d lost something before she’d even had the chance to grasp onto it.

  When the car slowed, Lexie opened her eyes and saw they were at her house. Gabe pulled up in front of the old Victorian she’d called home all her life. The only thing different from when she was a kid, was the The Saucy Lucy Café sign tacked above the porch.

  Lexie collected her purse and the cooler. “Thanks,” she told Gabe.

  He nodded. “You need anything, you call.”

  She got out and shut the car door, then walked up the sidewalk, feet dragging like sacks of flour. On the porch, she turned to watch Stevenson drive away, then went inside. Thank heavens Aunt Gladys was out with Frenchie. She didn’t want to talk with anyone. The phone rang and she didn’t answer it, figuring if it was important they’d leave a message.

  Setting everything on a hallway table, she trudged up the stairs to her room, shut the door, and flopped on the bed, kicking off her shoes. Amazing. The carved ceiling patterns seemed to move in front of her eyes, she was so keyed up. One of her eyelids began to twitch.

  Thump … ahhh … Squeak, squeak, squeak …

  Lexie pushed up on her elbows. What the heck is that? She stayed very still, straining to hear.

  Thump … ahhh … Squeak, squeak, squeak …

  Someone was in the house. The murderer? Had he or she come looking for her? She thought about calling Gabe’s cell phone. Or maybe she should call Otis. Maybe not. What if she got them over here for no reason? She’d better check it out herself.

  Lexie slipped into the hallway. Tiptoeing, she followed the strange thumping and squeaking up the staircase to Aunt Gladys’ living quarters. She paused at the attic door, ear pressed against the wood. The noises were definitely coming from inside. She grasped the doorknob and slowly turned it.

  As it she poked her head inside, she noticed the curtains were pulled tightly around Aunt Gladys’ bedroom alcove and the noises had stopped. However, an unusual odor wafted through the room. Lexie wrinkled her nose and sniffed. It smelled like oregano or … incense? Something was burning. Knowing Aunt Gladys’ penchant for starting fires, she became concerned.

  “Aunt Gladys?” She walked inside and looked for signs of mischief. “Are you up here? What’s going on?”

  The curtains jerked open and Aunt Gladys popped her head out, her cap of white curly hair in disarray. Frenchie was stretched out beside her in bed and they had the top sheet pulled up and tucked beneath their armpits. Both of them clenched what appeared to be joints between their thumbs and forefingers.

  Lexie planted her hands on her hips. “Who said the two of you could do that up here?”

  “Do what?” Aunt Gladys pretended to be innocent of any wrongdoing. “Have sex?”

  Lexie’s face prickled with warmth. “No, smoke.” Lexie sniffed the acrid smell again. “Is that … marijuana?”

  Frenchie grinned. “Yes, indeed, or what the peasant folk quaintly call weed.”

  “But … but that’s illegal,” Lexie sputtered.

  What kind of a mess was she going to have to clean up for Aunt Gladys now? In her mind, she saw Otis and his doofy deputy Cleve Harris doing a drug raid on the café. The final nail on the coffin. Barnard Savage would have a real heyday with this scoop. Another murder and a drug bust on top of it.

  “Not at all, my dear,” Frenchie said. “My doctor’s prescribed this for medicinal purposes.”

  “And pigs fly,” Lexie said. Still reeling from Jack’s death, she decided this was the last straw— coming home to find her aunt romping in the hay with Prince Valiant and smoking dope to boot. Even her teenage daughter had never even given her so much trouble.

  “Why are you two home so early? I thought you had a full day planned.”

  “We did.” Aunt Gladys giggled, took another toke and exhaled. “But we ran into a bit of trouble at Dillon’s department store.”

  Lexie could only imagine.

  “But it was all a ridiculous mistake,” Aunt Gladys continued. “Those silly security people insisted I’d taken a pearl necklace from the jewelry counter.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “It was utter nonsense,” Aunt Gladys insisted. “It must have fallen in my pocket somehow and when we were leaving every alarm in the store started to screech. Hell’s bells, there was such a fuss you’d have thought I was escaping from Alcatraz. It was all a terrible misunderstanding.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Frenchie joined in. “The very idea that my little poopsie would shoplift is insane. Why, I could buy a hundred pearl necklaces for Gladys if I wanted to.”

  “As it was, he just bought that one.” Aunt Gladys lifted the pearls around her neck, leaned over and gave Frenchie a smack on the cheek.

  Lexie nodded. “So after you two got the matter settled—”

  “We decided to come back here for a little slap and tickle, if you know what I mean.” Aunt Gladys gave Lexie a knowing wink.

  Lexie shuffled backward to the door, shaking a warning finger at Aunt Gladys. “No more shopping at Dillon’s. And please put out the medicinal cigarettes before you burn my house down.”

  “Party pooper.” Aunt Gladys took another puff and waved the smoke away from her face. “By the way, how was your date?”

  “It was great. Right up until the point where someone killed him.”

  Aunt Gladys and Frenchie’s mouths dropped open and they gave her shocked looks.

  Lexie didn’t wait to explain. She left the attic and hurried down to her room. She crawled back into bed, threw the covers over her head and huddled into a fetal position. Misery shrouded her like a veil.

  The café was in the toilet.

  There’d been another murder.

  Everyone in town hated her.

  Aunt Gladys was a loon.

  She had no life.

  Tears burned at the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them flow. Crying didn’t accomplish a damn thing. She wanted badly to blame all of this on Dan for his lies and disloyalty. If he’d only been a decent husband she never w
ould have moved home to Moose Creek Junction. But the time for blaming him had passed and she was trying to move forward with her life, not back.

  Even if it meant living through this hell.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE DAY OF JACK STURGEON’S FUNERAL TURNED out as dismal as the weather. It was actually cool and the sky was filled with dark gray clouds everyone hoped would give the parched autumn landscape some much needed moisture. More than likely not, though. Lots of teaser storms had passed over town, sometimes releasing a few drops of rain. Then nothing. The wind would pick up and blow the clouds north to Montana or South Dakota.

  Anywhere but Moose Creek Junction.

  Which is exactly where Lexie would have preferred to be at the moment. She’d been walking around like a zombie since the ill-fated fishing trip. She and Lucy had agreed to close The Saucy Lucy for the time being, a frightening, but sensible move. There was really no point in making all that food since no one came to eat at the café any more.

  Lexie stewed about the situation all week. She simply couldn’t get over the fact that yet another one of her dates had been eliminated. Lucy tried to offer moral support, but she hadn’t actually been much help—going on about how there were lots of fish in the sea and Lexie would find someone new. Blah, blah, blah. Platitudes served up on an unappealing platter.

  That wasn’t the point. At all.

  Her life had gone topsy-turvy. The café wasn’t providing a living for her anymore. There was a murderer running loose in Moose Creek Junction. Lexie wasn’t simply being blamed for all the mishaps, she was a prime target. As unlikely as it seemed, somebody wanted her dead.

  Who?

  Reluctantly, she got ready for the funeral by choosing a black dress, dark hose, and heels, strongly suggesting to Aunt Gladys that she also dress accordingly. When she was finally ready, thinking herself stable enough to face the solemn event, she went downstairs. She determined Aunt Gladys must be ready and waiting to go because she was singing, “Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg …”

  Lexie followed Aunt Gladys’ voice into the kitchen. “Let’s go or else we’re going to be …” she blinked. Aunt Gladys stood in front of the kitchen window wiping a stack of kitchen knives with a towel. That wouldn’t have been quite so bad if she hadn’t been naked. Well, not completely naked. A lacy bra encased her droopy breasts and a garter belt and hose covered most of her saggy hips and legs.